


Éōs

by corrupted_quiet



Series: Regnum et Lacus [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Blow Jobs, Demigods, Implied Attempted Sexual Assault, M/M, Past Violence, Sexual Content, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7133444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_quiet/pseuds/corrupted_quiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Before Time, there were many kingdoms and one prophecy: an immortal man would one day fight the Son of the Underworld and bring peace to the Southern Parks. Kenny has known this prophecy all his life, but never had a reason to care; until the fates brought Kyle into his life and gave him the need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Éōs

The first glimpse of sunlight peaks over the horizon, rays of gold grabbing the world’s edge. Every morning those solar fingers dig their nails into the sands and hoist the sun towards the zenith, emitting the harbingers of the dawn, dyeing the pigments of ashen darkness with the glow of yellow flame. Every morning is renewal, luminescence washing out the intricate patterns of stars, hiding the great heroes of bedside stories till little children need them once again, to watch over while they sleep; the morning is the coming of the heroes of today, and so the sun banishes the ones of old. It shrouds the constellations—of gods and of men and of creatures large and small—in the many hues of daybreak, letting them gather nebulous cloaks and disguise themselves with clouds, so they blend with the firmament’s palette. This hour is of transition, when day bleeds over night, and paves the path for the sun’s journey across, from the east to the west.

The sun starts off at the edge of the camp, at the corner in the east, starting just beyond the tent of this army’s most valued of soldiers. While most other structures stand in a clutter—the makeshift barracks crowded into a narrow avenue, armouries and blacksmiths and cookeries clustered around one another—this one breathes, in its own space. It boasts a decent lawn, making any visitor walk twenty places from the main complex to the front flaps, still a part of the main body, but not overwhelmed with such claustrophobia. But other than that, it is ordinary, little else in appearance suggesting vast importance; the size is about that of an average living quarter, the canvas making up its walls and roof are plain, the adornments and additions seen in other high personages’ dwellings utterly ignored.

No, a newcomer would never guess this to be the demigod’s tent. Never would one assume that here lived the one told of in the prophecies, the immortal son meant to turn the tides of war, the promise of victory imbued in his golden hair, in his sky blue eyes. But those whose ears only listen to the prophecies would also assume him to be willing, willing to win for the people he fights for, fighting for the glory and thriving on that alone. They would never guess that their pledged hero despised every aspect of his birthright, present only out of obligation to a grand scheme he apparently cannot alter, hating each word spouted by the oracles that declared him so integral to a cause that was not his, a fight he did not start, a campaign he did not care for; but there are a lot of things that even Kenny could never have guessed. Not even heroes know their _whole_ stories from the start, as much as Kenny thought he knew his.

The embers in the fire pit died hours before the moon dipped behind the mountains, the tent’s chamber still in shadows. A few threads of sunshine slip between the woven walls, but their light is too dim to do more than illumine a few grains of sand, miniature dunes made by footprints, pacing to and fro within the room. None so much as touch the stacks of codices, logs and histories inscribed on each parchment, entertaining reads for the slow passing days, nor do the rays braise the tall loom, stone weights dangling down one side, the beginnings of a tapestry wrapped about the top. And their corner, by the bottles of oil, surrounded by imported cushion, remains still in darkness.

That was what this life would be, a dark one. Kenny still remembers the first words he heard, that of the local soothsayer, proclaiming that by the time he reached a ripe age of twenty four, he be drafted into the army. A war was coming; one that would eventually unite the kingdoms of the southern park by its end, and this young demigod would be the key to defeating their enemy, the Son of the Underworld. So he felt no surprise when news arrived of an adversary, quickly rising to power; nor did he protest when the king lording over his homeland—the _Anax_ known as Cartman, his size only rivalled by his cruelty—recruited him to serve _strategos_ in his forces, gaining rank of general out of courtesy, all of his skill attributed to his heritage and nothing more. But nowhere in that poetic rhyming, nowhere between the praises to the powers that be, was there a single mention of something—of _anything_ —about him, about Kyle.

Kenny feels his warm breath, brushing the side of his face, cheek caressed by the heat of Kyle’s lungs. The air comes out in bursts, each one carrying a sound, syllables stringing together into words, words of a language never spoken in his homelands. He knows the tongue only in that voice, in Kyle’s voice, in the misted and dreamy tone of the mornings, when his throat is as fresh as the dew on his lashes; he mutters the _Shacharit_ , the morning prayers, his soft waking utterances of the _Shema_ a song to Kenny’s ears, one he cherishes, one he loves. Because Kyle’s morning ritual, somewhere along the line, became _their_ morning ritual: the time when they both shed the murky layers of sleepiness, shrugging them off like clothing, like the way they strip each other down under supervision of the moonbeams, no cotton or leather dividing their skin, given all the freedom to kiss and fuck until the last star recedes into the dawn.

They almost never had this, almost never were. The faces of the moon cycled through several times since that night, when all the _strategoi_ gathered in their kingship’s tent. Cartman gathered the lot, sat them on fine pillows taken from his palace home, and poured each a goblet of wine as he explained his few days’ absence, bragged to them all that he personally conducted a raid on a small local village. His deed done out of sport rather than necessity, with no intent to share that which he took, he displayed to all his high generals the spoils of his looting, the small metallic trinkets and the artisan carved statutes. But his ultimate prize, the one he adored exhibiting to his fellows, was the Jewish boy—his new slave. Kenny still remembers his eyes that night, looking into the green for the first time, emeralds glazed with anger, to hide the fear of spending the rest of his days in bondage to a cruel master. But even with his near twenty five years of preparation for a seat at the Sanhedrin seemingly stolen, he held himself resolutely, defiantly, as though the bruises and cuts staining his complexion did not ache, as though the twine and cloth binding his limbs and mouth were but inconveniences. Cartman’s plump fingers stroked through the crimson curls as he explained that, while a problem now, he would soon _tame_ him; Kenny nearly snapped the king’s wrist tearing his hand away, teeth barred when he warned that his indulgences had gone too far. The candlelight flickered in Kyle’s eyes when he looked at him, something changed.

Then Kenny was warned he’d gone too far, laying a hand on royalty, ordered back to his quarters to think about his actions. His partial divinity rendered any conventional reprimand impossible, the value of his service intertwined with the weight of his legacy too great to squander; the whole walk back to his quarters, his escorts reminded him of his luckiness, told that this was mercy. His mind kept looping back, to the one who wouldn’t be spared, who would get the brunt of the punishment, who would be placed in his stead and receive far worse. He sat before his hearth, wondering, wondering how severely he would suffer for Kenny’s outcry. But his wondering stopped, after scarcely a shift in the moon’s position, when his escorts returned to his door, bellowing his name. Kenny poked his head out between the flaps, eyes glancing over the figure of the king—only half his face lit by his fellow’s torch, red patches of cinder’s claws scorched below his glassy eye—before giving the signal. Another shoved Kyle inside, thrusting him onto Kenny’s body, holding the door open as they tumbled back. The serrated words of his king slit the air, as Kenny gazed up at the green: _“He’s your problem now.”_

His sigh marks the end of the blessings, Kyle letting out a light groan, signalling a pause. He always speaks his prayers clearly, all his concentration on articulation. But while otherwise this would be the time to rise, stand and face the east for the Amidah, he carves his own space, a gap. He always waits until Kenny leaves, going off to insufferable council meetings or to oversee another training exercise, before walking to the loom, taking the strands of yarn in his hands, and letting prayer pour from his lips, in the crisp whisper of a desert breeze. Then, having kept the _mitzvot_ , he weaves more of his shroud, lengthening to the cloth and shortening the time they spend apart.

Originally, Kenny just got him the loom so he could spend the day doing something. For the first cycle of new to full moon, all Kyle did was lie in a corner, refusing to talk no matter how many times Kenny tried, only stealing glances when he thought Kenny wasn’t looking, hardened with stubbornness. Understandable, really, but not a way for him to spend his time, not without his mind swimming in the same grim thoughts of his fate, swimming as they got stickier and soupier, until he finally stagnated and sunk into the pools of depression. Kenny met a local shepherd with the loom in disrepair, and used his meagre salary to negotiate a trade: the loom be fixed and given to him, then, every two weeks, he’d come back to the shepherd for a supply of dyed skeins. The agreement worked well, the loom and its first lengths of yarn delivered and affixed, Kenny telling Kyle it was for his use only, a present for him, vouching he would never treat him as anything less than what he was: human.

And Kyle did use it, starting the first night in fact, plucking at the strings of the warp, picking through the coloured yarns. The first time he spoke was a week or so later, after tolerating Kenny prattling on and on as he wove, holding a one-sided conversation. Kyle thanked him, told him that he learned to work with thread from a gentile girl in his village. After that Kyle started dominating their late night talks, the two of them stitching closer and closer together, until they became so intertwined that their hearts meshed together, their bodies interlocked, and they two were like one.

Senses return slowly, Kenny feeling Kyle’s palm lazily glide over his hip. Kyle presses to his side, body following the path laid by the contours of Kenny’s torso. His other hand stays laced with Kenny’s, thumbing over his knuckles, arms parallel. They are heat and oil, breath and salt, skin and murmurs. Kyle’s exhales brush over Kenny’s cheek, one after the other, getting warmer each time; the distance between their heads wanes, gibbous to quarter to crescent. Kenny’s just rises, falls, and he opens his mouth just slightly, lips teasing at a smile. He inhales the taste of Kyle’s lips through the air, the taste of barley wheat and legumes, of honeyed wine and come. Kenny savours them as reminders, reminders of the night freshly passed: Kyle’s hands matting his hair as his tongue lapped white from Kenny’s fingertips, shuddering lightly while Kenny stroked the back of his neck, soft moans trickling from his throat and enlivening the air.

A forehead nudges his temple, a simple check to gage if he’s awake. A sleepy nuzzle, with the curve of Kyle’s nose nestling along his cheek, stray red hairs creeping at the corners of Kenny’s still closed eyes. The hand on his hip curls, the tip of Kyle’s nose settling just under his cheekbone, and a silent sigh caresses him. Their chests rise and fall, rise and fall, before Kyle forms an O with his lips, and plant a gentle kiss. A low hum resounds in his mouth, makes his lips vibrate with words he’s yet to speak, words waiting on a reciprocating greeting before climbing over the walls of his teeth.

Kenny tongues the roof of his mouth, biting back laughter, wanting to feign sleep a little longer, just to toy with him, have him redouble his efforts to rouse him from slumber and work more magic with his mouth. One kiss ends, another begins, Kyle opening his mouth a little wider, amplifying his humming. The tip of his tongue, tentatively, flicks over Kenny’s skin, dousing the flame beneath his cheek with a dab of saliva.

But it only acts as oil, magnifying the fire, letting it spread across his face in a dilute rouge. Kenny folds in his bottom lip, wetting it while Kyle stops his second and starts his third. Kyle’s body shifts, head moving downward, dragging his top lip down to Kenny’s jawline. He leaves a thick trail, marking where his mouth had been. His hums crack, somewhere along the way, break into a series of misty groans, strung together like beads of a necklace.

A laugh sneaks out from Kenny’s throat, staccato and short, the kind a boy chokes out when caught in the midst of his mischief-making. The sound hangs in the air, stuck between echoing around them and dissolving in the firmament. Kenny feels the smile curve on Kyle’s mouth, feels his lips fighting the giddiness whilst trying to suckle on the bone. Kyle’s fingernails skirt over his hipbone, tempted to burrow into the skin, in the same way he loves to dig trenches across Kenny’s back. He redirects his energies, channels from one hand to the other, clasping their hands together tighter. He holds his hand like the world is in his palm.

Kyle leaves one last kiss, signed with a quick lick, before drawing back, departing with a muted smack. It coaxes out another laugh, Kenny lolling his head to the side, filling the space Kyle’s motions create. Finger pads rub the dip of his hip, tenderness imbued in the swirls of his prints. Kenny’s chuckling ebbs into a grunt, rolling his shoulder, refreshing himself on where his limbs lie. The muscles in his arms tingle, activity renewed, outstretched beside a few bottles of oil. He curls his fingers, one at a time, ensuring they can once again feel, and reach for the arm draped over his abdomen. His hand drifts from Kyle’s wrist along to his elbow, then back towards his wrist, petting back and forth, back and forth.

He opens his eyes, first assailed by flurries of colour and light, then greeted by the hues and shades that make up Kyle’s form. His light complexion is dotted in some places, around the chest and torso with a few misplaced freckles, tiny browned dots randomly forming independent constellations, and around his neck and hips and shoulders with several darkened marks meticulously placed by Kenny in the bonds of intimacy. The mop of curls on his head looks dishevelled, crimson tangled in the throes of sleep, but only a part of its disarray can be attributed to unconscious tossing. All the light in the room, it seems, comes from Kyle’s eyes, open yet dewy, reminiscent of a calm lake nestled in a secluded valley. They’re filled with so much, so much more than the night they met. Then they showed spectres of a wax pillar’s flare, an ember trapped within a chasm of darkness; now they outshine the sun and the stars, closer to ethereal than the godly blood flowing in his veins.

This time, when Kenny’s hand strokes along Kyle’s arm, he follows all the way up, passing over the shoulder, skimming the neck. His palm cradles Kyle’s jaw, fingers knitting into the bouncy twisted locks. His thumb strokes the side of his face, each sweep inspiring a larger grin on Kyle’s face, growing from a contained smirk into an exultant smile. The colour of his cheeks change too, Kenny’s touches splashing light tinges of pink below his eyes and on his ears, mimicking the rosy fingers pulling back the curtain of night.

Kenny heaves out a humid breath, a sigh of contentment, of a genuine happiness he never thought he’d feel, and regains his voice, “Rest well, Kyle?”

His name rolls off his tongue, spoken with such kindness, such affection, such things Kyle never thought he’d hear. Kyle never thought a lot of things before this chapter of his life, always focused on the path set for him back home. His family, for generations, treaded the same road, with little room for him to question doing something, anything else. Then, the day he was taken from his home, the person he was died; his family and friends must assume his life long snuffed out, and even if he somehow ventured back to them he could never resume things as they were. At first that was a bad thing, but a new hope ignited when Kenny stood up for him, decried his capture, defended his personhood. Kenny used to be his chance, chance of hope and freedom, but now he is both, both his hope and his freedom.

Even before they shared a bed, he did all he could, to give a semblance of a life outside a war camp, the life of one not bound by servitude. He was patient and he was considerate, never forcing words from Kyle’s lips, simply offering again and again a chance for him to speak. He used the few coins allotted to him to buy things, things for Kyle to do, so he could express himself as he wished. He even encouraged him to guard his beliefs, assuring him that he held no qualms with differing practices, even offering a few things to aid in his observance. Kenny never saw him as any kind of slave, never viewed him as beneath him; for someone said to be of omnipotent birth, he cherished Kyle as someone on the same level as him, or maybe even above. Once upon a time, Kyle felt he would never have a home, but now, staring into those eyes of blue, Kyle feels a whole kingdom has opened arms just for him.

He blinks, tightens his grasp on Kenny’s hand. Beyond the mess of golden hair, he sees the saffron robes of morning, pulled forth by a chariot. Dawn’s light crafts a halo, tailored to Kenny’s face. He licks his lips, blinks again, nods with a grunt, “Very, very…”

He trails off, words petering out into a dull purr. All the while, Kenny leans in, closing the distance between their faces, in one heave of breath, loaded and weighted with humidity. Kyle swallows the air he expels, imbibing in him as a drunkard does three jugs of wine, his mouth sweeter than grape nectar.

But Kenny pauses, just before their lips touch, knowing words still teeter on the tip of Kyle’s tongue. He lingers in this moment, this hesitation, so he can absorb everything, enjoy everything. He, the immortal man, never felt life this way; never felt it the way he feels in Kyle’s presence.

Buoyance overtakes Kyle, relaxing all his muscles. He knows that as soon as he utters a reply, they’ll wash off the grime of sleep, with the waters of each other, collecting fragmentary bits of their minds from floating off into the ether. It takes a moment; to ground himself, keep him from flying off with those bits of thought. In a gasp, stealing the breath from Kenny’s mouth, “You?”

Kenny lets out a quiet chuckle, widening his grin. The tip of Kyle’s noses grazes against the tip of his, and he thumbs over his face one more time. One more time, before seizing Kyle’s lips with his own, rekindling the coals embedded in their teeth. Kenny slides his tongue in, shooting up to the palette of his mouth. Kyle’s ducks under, sneaks in at the corner of his smile. He tongues the interior of his cheek, warm and wet, soft and comforting. Kenny holds Kyle’s face, while Kyle tugs on Kenny’s body, asking him to roll over, roll over on his side, so he can then roll Kyle over on his back, climb on top of him and fuck him, fuck him with all the strength of a god and soul of a man.

And he obliges, adheres to his request, turning his body so their fronts press together, so their hearts can beat against the other’s chest. He breaks their lips apart, retracting his tongue to grant a moment’s respite. He feels Kyle’s move under his, sliding until they no longer touch, but remain bound by watery gossamers, as strong as the yarn of the in-progress tapestry. Kenny’s breath comes out choppily, cutting into Kyle’s half-pants, waves slapping against the hull of a ship. In the midst of Kyle’s inhale, he leans back in, traps his bottom lip between his teeth, hard enough to hold but not enough to hurt. He tugs upward, with the warmth of his lips kissing back embracing him. His fingers pull on the crimson roots.

They tumble, stumble together, in each other’s arms. Kenny stealthily wraps a leg around one of Kyle’s, acting as a cloak and swathing him, enveloping him. He ensures there are no gaps between them, tightening the grip on his hand. Kyle lets his shoulders fall against the ground, lets his back lie on the linens, lie on the clothes they discarded to make their evening bed. Kenny’s weight shifts on top of him, overwhelming him, with the heat of him, breath of him, every bit of him.

Kyle moans, nicely, happily, easily, as Kenny releases his lip, plants one, two more swift kisses upon his mouth. Then his lips move down, first the dip before his chin, then the edge of the bone. His hand follows Kyle’s veins, running along the curve of his neck, then meeting the ground to support him, while his lips pave a path down his throat. He swallows, muscles flexing beneath the kisses, each one sloppier than the last. Kyle slides his hand lower, lower on Kenny’s body. His fingers graze the small of his back, then drift lower, stretching his arm to touch his ass.

But Kenny has other matters in mind, crossing the threshold of his collarbone and progressing down the sternum; his weight shifts to his knees, lifting his lower half so he can securely straddle. He moves before Kyle can do more than ghost the curl, just short of a real grope. He settles his lips on Kyle’s chest, aligned with the heart. The steady rhythm of the rise and fall and the sharp tempo of the beating soften him, his kiss getting lazier as his lips tug into a smile. The sounds are so loud in his ears, a symposium inside a lean and lovely body.

Kyle turns his head to the side, cheek first meeting fabric, then brushing against his thumb. He lets his hand wander along Kenny’s spine, to find his shoulder, his neck, his head, and exhales through the nose. The canopy of night is dissipating, but its aura loiters in their tent, a presence Kyle does not mind. He can spend ages in this, with Kenny again and again kissing the same spot, determined to dye his skin with colours of daybreak. But the one melancholy aspect of their early risings, the thought haunting the serenity coddling them in their indulgences, is knowing that the camp, too, will wake up. They will awaken and Kenny will dress in leather and bronze, strap his shield onto his back, fasten his short sword to his belt, and step into the golden rays with a dory in his hand, prepared in case of some unexpected attack. And he’ll run his errands fully hating the war, what it brings, what it’s brought, upon country and kin, both Kyle’s and his own, desperately wanting all those sitting high on the mountain to burn up with their plans and prophecies, freeing him to leave with him so they both might live, for Kyle again, for Kenny the first time.

“So…” His hand finds the lower strands of Kenny’s hair, twisting the ends of gold in his fingers. Kenny pauses, tongue hovering just over the skin, for a moment, then looks up, eyes finding his face. Kyle turns his head, looks back with raised brows, hoping his smile has not faded too much in his realisation, “What are today’s assignments?”

Kenny’s head bobs, slightly, a petal tickles by a hint of breeze. As soon as a word snuck from Kyle’s mouth, he figured this would be his question, as he asks all other days. After noticing a trend in his nightly activities, the king started issuing orders of his day-to-day in advance, telling him before finishing his day’s work what the next shifts would be. He never shares them in the evening, preoccupied with making up for his absence, mentioning his tasks when the courier would otherwise deliver them. This is easier, no longer interrupted in the middle, their sunrise exclusive and private, but he seldom likes talking about activities outside his quarters, not when he would rather shirk the pointless tasks and spend the time otherwise.

“Well…” He drawls, filing through his memory, prioritising his soldierly duties lowly. As he does, he spares a few kisses, at the end of his sternum, at the squishy spot between his ribs, at a point high on his belly. His knees take the brunt, flowing from a sprawl to a kneel. He adjusts his grip on his hand, unlacing their fingers, sliding his little finger between Kyle’s thumb, curling his other fingers around, his own thumb rubbing his wrist. He withdraws his hand from the linen, fingers dragging along Kyle’s skin, over the shoulder, down the plate of his chest. They brush over the darkened skin around his nipples, making Kyle shutter lightly at the sensitivity. Kenny looks to him again, flashing a smile, stopping his hand there, “I’ve gotta talk to Tweek and Clyde about stuff with our resources, make sure we don’t run out of food or water or metal or whatever else we need.”

Kyle nods, recognising the names better than the faces. Sometimes he does leave the tent, very rarely but sometimes. Out there is scrutiny, is people with pointed blades that can kill staring with eyes just as sharp, calling him a slave and a whore and a worthless pile of shit as he passes. If he mentioned some of the things he heard to Kenny, Kenny would do worse to them than any enemy could dream up. But he does not want that, want people beaten or lashed on his account, not when unforeseen repercussions could make things worse for the two of them. There are already enough people who hate him for no reason, why give them one?

Breath passes through lips formed in an oval, responding to fingertips gently following a circular motion. The blood in his veins rushes, a stream’s tranquil flow becoming a river’s speedy pace. He tucks his stomach in as Kenny kisses just above his navel, tickling. He pets over the blond, roughly, drawing circles on his crown the way he traces rings around his nipple. Kyle clears his throat, “After that?”

Kenny kisses the same spot, harder this time. Kyle’s hips buck up, a reflex, reaction to the depth. He lifts his head, tongue flicking over his lips, gathering the extra saliva from the corners of his mouth, keep him from drooling. He blows on the wet patch he left behind.

“Then’s intelligence…” He sighs, a grudging tone creeping in his voice as he goes on, “Or Craig talking _at_ me about informants he made up.”

Kyle tenses, briefly, remembering one of his excursions from the tent, around when they started truly getting to know one another. He went to find the well, replenish the empty jugs with water. He took the initiative, rather than waiting for Kenny to come back, thinking a few of his warnings over precautious. He could get a drink of water; at least he had that in his power. But as he yanked the rope, bringing up the basin sloshing with bounty from the underground spring, Craig came up behind, grabbed him by the arm, abruptly. He pushed one of their jugs into the well, made Kyle drop the rope and start thrashing, unprepared for an ambush. They yelled over one another, as a splash came from the far, far down, until Craig’s voice became muffled. Right then, he let go, and when Kyle turned around, Kenny had one hand clasped over his mouth, and the other around his throat. Craig raised his hands, waited, and Kenny released him. No words passed from their lips, communicating only in menacing glares, before Craig gave Kyle one last glance, then walked away. Kenny said they never got along smoothly, even as kids growing up on the streets begging for food; Kyle still thinks that attempt spoke as more than just a prolonged vendetta against a childhood rival.

All qualms arisen inside his head dissipate, though, when Kenny softly puts his lips to his abdomen, an emphasis of tenderness. He soothes him with notions of protection, each touch of his lips telling him that no one will harm him, not while he can help it. And, though he dares no dawdle on thoughts of anyone actually hurting him, he vows to defend him, swears to see him sheltered and safe. Kyle wonders if those hopes, those ones they share, might ever be a reality, “Then?”

“ _Then_ ,” His finger circles his nipple once more, pauses. He resumes his quest down Kyle’s body, hand stroking over the subtle ridges made by his ribs, “I find Token, tell him what everyone else told me, and watch ‘im move rocks around on a map ‘til it makes a strategy of s’thing.”

“Mmmh…” Kyle nods again, sounding distant, distracted. The words’ meanings dim, dull in the wake of other urges. Kenny ends his sentence by peppering more kisses, sprinkling them below the waist. His nails superficially scratch over Kyle’s flank as Kenny backs up, backs up so he can move his head exactly where he wants, exactly where _Kyle_ wants. Kyle tugs on some of the hairs twisted around his fingers, pulls them towards his forehead, “That all?”

“Almost,” Kenny hears how hollow his words are, how little he concentrates on what he says. His mind is ablaze like the sun on the horizon, increasing temperature as his free hand crosses to Kyle’s thigh, ghosts over the violet embedded in the flesh, “Just go back to King Fatass, summarise everything for ‘im.”

“Shouldn’t heEE—” A kiss on the head steals his focus, cracks his voice. He clutches his hand, fingers burying in the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger. A twinge of discomfort rides down Kenny’s arm, nerves awkwardly crowded. He ignores it, instead letting out a laugh, sliding his hand from soft thigh to hard base. Kyle regains his voices, “… _he_ , do this himself?”

“Why, when he can force me to do it?” Kenny remarks, sardonically. He loves how, even when speaking bitterness, the air from his mouth brings a faint shudder. His eyes flit up, meeting Kyle’s gaze, informing him that he would do that again, if Kyle wished. The response he gets is a laugh, a laugh to his sarcasm, an agreement to his lips. Kenny’s forefinger strokes along the shaft, and he lays another kiss on the tip. He relishes the trilling laughter, laughing on and on as Kenny’s lips part, wrap around, suck.

Kyle pinches his shoulders together, pushes his head to the clothed earth. His back arches, giving permission for Kenny to take more of him—as much as he possibly can—in his mouth. He feels the welcome of his cheeks, the greeting of his tongue, the enthusiasm of his hand. He gathers more threads of gold between his fingers; he collects as Kenny’s head rises up, and allows some to slip when it ducks down.

The bells of laughter evolve into elated moans, growing louder the more Kenny sucks on Kyle’s cock, the more he pumps his dick to pass between his lips, all the moisture and warmth of his tongue and cheeks and throat centralising on him. Because even though Kyle is by no means the first to lie with him, he is the first to _know_ him, the first to add meaning to the fucking and derive passion from thin air. He cares for every part of him, every muscle, bone, and hair, because he gave him life outside a goddamned prophecy, one where his heritage did not matter and his credence was never questioned.

With Kyle, he was not the boy the oracles foretold, not the immortal mixed amongst the common men, not the hero people hoped for or the saviour people prayed for; with Kyle, he was just Kenny. And with Kenny, Kyle was not simply another wandering Jew, an outsider for countless reasons, an exotic prize to be a bounty of pillage; with Kenny, Kyle was someone with his own dreams and ambitions, someone with a mind and a heart, someone truly important and valued. Kenny can be no one with Kyle, and Kyle can be the only one with Kenny.

Light graces their corner, illuminating the mess of satin cloths and linen tunics. It warms Kenny’s exposed back and Kyle’s naked chest. It adds a shine to the curls of crimson, a glitter to the locks of gold. As rosy fingers daub pinks, oranges, and finally blues across the firmament, red flushes their skin. All Kyle feels is _mouth_ , all Kenny feels is _cock_.

Kenny’s lips roll down, down his dick one more time, before Kyle comes, dyes the interior white. A groan rolls from his lips, pushing his palm down on the crown of his head, clinging to his hand. Just like the night before, the morning before, the days before, he basks in the sunny afterglow, breath uneven, heartbeat erratic. A moment of reset, just after release, the bodily revelation that, again, functions can return to the normal, now rejuvenated and refreshed.

Smile on his face, he enjoys hearing Kenny swallow, first what already paints his mouth, then the drivels still on him. He always does this slowly, methodically, to savour as much as he can, to cherish his moments and appreciate the taste. It gives Kyle a chance to find his breath again, to keep from grasping to fill his lungs or choking on intangible clouds. He closes his eyes, raises and lowers his chest, again and again, letting his fingers listlessly relinquish Kenny’s hair, laying his arm beside his head as Kenny resituates his hand. He feels Kenny crawl over him, back on top, before drawing close, joining their lips, kissing him. Kenny always misses the come on the side of his lips.

Colours cycle through the sky, have cycled through, with a dominant blue prevailing. Adding in the accents of puffy alabaster masses and silhouetted birds, the day is nearly complete, nearly ready to start. Kenny reluctantly leans back, just enough so they can breathe in each other’s mouths without them touching.

“But,” He speaks quietly, almost a murmur, as though raising his voice any higher might wake the whole camp, “When that’s said and done, I can come see you.”

Kyle takes another kiss, soft and fast, before really thinking about what left those lips. He lays his head back down, blinks, then stares into the sky, sky blue eyes. His head tilts to the side, as he says, with a smirk, “What if I’m busy?”

Kenny lets out a laugh, a heavy one, from his chest, “I’ll wait.”

Kyle opens his mouth, about to talk back, but Kenny meets him before a single sound escapes. A deep kiss, Kenny putting tongue to cheek, to other cheek, to roof, before he breaks it; he needs one he can think about during the day’s labours, one to look forward to besting when the moon shows its face again. Then, spoken against his lips, he elaborates, “I’ll wait and think about your legs wrapped around my neck.”

Kyle smiles, lets out a noise caught between a laugh and hum. Caught between, that’s what war is, being caught between. They are in war, caught between the nations and the banners, the soldiers and the civilians, the mortal and the omniscient. But, in Kenny’s embrace, as the sun screens through the canvas sheltering them, being caught between is just like the dawn: a transition from darkness and into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Who here remembers this crappy universe I concocted nearly five years ago? No? Then this is an entirely new idea never look up the original. Because it is going to be a small anthology of one-shots that take place throughout the timeline of this universe (so I can write things out of order and add details where necessary). So some things mentioned here might be gone into more detail later. We'll see.
> 
> I'm back from hiatus and have a lot of almost-finished stuff, and this just happened to be the first thing that I completed. I'm super happy to start posting regularly again and hope that all of your enjoy this.


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